Chapter 9 Jin
The punching bag swings on its chain as I drive my fist into it again.
Jab. Jab. Cross. Hook. Roundhouse kick.
Sweat drips down my bare chest, clinging to the divots of muscle and sliding along the lines of my tattoos.
The gym in the Claw Lounge is empty at this early hour. Men won’t show up ’til later in the morning, which means I have the place to myself.
I launch another roundhouse kick, delivering a hard blow to the punching bag. It jerks back and forth, the chain clanging.
It feels good to crush my fist and other parts of me against it. Satisfying to drive my leg at the bag of sand and imagine my foe’s face on it.
I train like this regularly. Even as Baekho-je, I can’t afford to let my skills dull. The moment a leader relies solely on his men for protection is the moment he becomes vulnerable. I’ve seen what happens to vulnerable men in this world.
They end up like Jae-hyun, drunk and sloppy and taken out on a whim.
I’m resetting my stance when the door to the gym opens.
Park Min-gyu appears in the doorway, his bulky frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. My gaze drops immediately to the large bandage wrapped around his upper arm. A souvenir from the shootout outside the boxing arena.
I grab the towel draped over a nearby bench and mop the sweat from my face, my breathing still ragged from exertion.
“How is the injury?” I ask.
Min-gyu glances down at his arm and shrugs. “It’s healing and I’m alive. I have no complaints. I’m ready to return to hubae duties.”
I give a short nod of approval. Min-gyu is reliable and steadfast. He doesn’t complain or make excuses. These are qualities I value.
“We’ve started looking into the identity of the shooters,” he continues. “The obvious suspects are the Bulgeomhoe.”
I toss the towel over my shoulder, still shirtless, and gesture for him to follow.
“Walk with me.”
We leave the gym behind and ride the elevator to the third floor, where my office is located.
The rest of the Claw Lounge is also quiet at this hour, most of the men either out on assignments or sleeping off the previous night’s indulgences.
Only some of our attendants are around, tidying up in preparation for business hours.
“There’s an old captain from the Bulgeomhoe who has a known vendetta against you,” Min-gyu says as we stand shoulder to shoulder in the elevator. “Goh Seung-ho. You battled him years ago, when you were still a young captain yourself.”
The name stirs my memory. A slender man with bad teeth and cruel eyes and a reputation for brutality.
I remember the fight—the crunch of bone that met my fists and how he screamed when I shattered his jaw and broke his already rotting teeth beyond repair.
“I remember,” I say. “I left him disfigured. What of him?”
“He was rumored to be present at the boxing match in Yeongdo-gu. Despite his... uh, condition, he was highly regarded in his day. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to recruit men willing to work for him.”
I consider this as we leave the elevator and reach my office door. “Why would he seek revenge now? It’s been years.”
“I’m not sure,” Min-gyu admits. “But there’s speculation. As I’m sure you remember, Baekho-je, he used to be called Black Tooth—for his bad teeth, even before you broke them. It’s possible he might be calling himself Black Shell now. A new identity to go with his old vendetta.”
Black Tooth. Black Shell.
It’s flimsy. A stretch at best.
But it’s also the only lead we have.
“We’ll explore it,” I say, pushing open the office door. “I want to know everything about Goh Seung-ho’s movements over the past—”
I stop short.
Lieutenant Nam Joo-wan is lounging in one of the leather chairs across from my desk, a glass of clear liquid in his hand. He looks up as we enter, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
“Jin-tae,” he greets me, raising the glass. “Care for a drink? Min-gyu?”
Min-gyu shakes his head respectfully. I stare at Joo-wan, my jaw tight.
“Soju from my minibar,” I say flatly. “Not yours. Yet you help yourself and offer it as though it belongs to you.”
Joo-wan’s smile falters. He sets the glass down quickly, rising from the chair with sudden deference. “My apologies, Jin-tae. I meant no disrespect. I was only waiting to deliver a message and thought—”
“What message?” I snap in interruption.
“The boxing commissioner reached out. He’s concerned about the shootout and the attention it’s drawing. The police are involved now, asking questions. He wants to arrange a dinner to discuss how best to mitigate these kinds of situations in the future.”
I move past him to my desk, dropping into the chair and fixing him with a cold stare. “Tell the commissioner to call me directly. I don’t need intermediaries.”
Joo-wan blinks, clearly stung by the dismissal, but he recovers quickly. “Of course. I’ll relay the message.”
He lingers for a moment, as if hoping I’ll say something else. When I remain icy and silent, he finally takes the hint and leaves, closing the door behind him.
Min-gyu watches him go, his expression neutral.
“Keep an eye on him,” I say. “He’s a lieutenant and you’re only a hubae. But think of it as you being my eyes. Tell me what you see.”
Min-gyu promptly nods, giving a half-bow. “Yes, Baekho-je. I’ll keep you updated.”
After he leaves, I sit alone in the silence of my office, turning the name over in my mind.
Goh Seung-ho was known as Black Tooth.
Now someone named Black Shell is threatening me.
It’s possible they’re the same man. Goh Seung-ho certainly has reason to want me dead. I took everything from him—his reputation, his position, his face, however ugly it was.
That kind of defeat would fester over time. It would turn into pure loathing and hatred. More than it already was years ago.
But I still remain somewhat unconvinced. The shootout was coordinated. The message delivered as if some riddle I’m meant to solve. That’s not the work of a broken man nursing old grudges over his disfigured jaw.
That’s the work of someone with resources. With patience.
Somebody with a plan.
Still, I have to be sure.
I’ll find Goh Seung-ho myself. If he’s the one calling himself Black Shell, I’ll finish what I started all those years ago.
This time, I won’t leave him breathing.
The hanok sits crooked on the edge of the coast, an isolated little house away from civilization.
It’s the place I inherited from my family, where I spent the first few years of my life before everything was taken from me.
But as I approach it now, it radiates warmth, light glowing from the windows and smoke curling from the chimney.
The shutters have been repaired. The porch swept clean. The air smells sweet, like a sugary, freshly baked dessert.
Monroe’s doing. She’s always loved this place. The privacy of it and how cozy it feels. She said once that it was the perfect place to raise a family, far from the noise and danger of the city.
I push open the door, and a small body barrels into my legs.
“Daddy!”
I look down into the beaming face of my son. He’s small—barely three years old—with Monroe’s warm copper skin and my almond eyes and untidy dark hair. His name is Jaden, and he’s the most precious thing I’ve ever created.
It still amazes me that someone as ruthless and cold as I am can create a thing as pure and innocent as this.
I scoop him up, holding him against my chest as he wraps his little arms around my neck.
“Have you been behaving yourself?” I ask to his eager nod.
Monroe appears in the kitchen doorway, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. Her belly is swollen with our second child, too round and heavy to be disguised by the flowy dress she wears. A smile plays at the corner of her lips as she sips from the tea.
“He waited all day for you,” she says. “Even tried to stay up through his afternoon nap. It was a losing battle. Nodded off after a few minutes, but he put up a good fight.”
I laugh and lift Jaden high, spinning him a few times. He shrieks with delight, his giggles filling the house like music.
When I set him down, he scampers off to play with the toy cars scattered across the ondol-heated floor. I watch him go with pure fondness beating in my heart.
My wife and son are my happy place; they’re my entire world, regardless of the real cold and gritty world outside.
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes,” Monroe says. “I made jerk chicken.”
“Sounds tasty. I’ll go wash up.”
I cross to her first, pressing a kiss to her forehead then her lips. She tastes like honey and chamomile from the tea.
The washroom is small and simple, with a basin and a mirror and not much else. I splash water onto my face, letting the cool liquid wash away the stressful remnants of the day.
When I look up, I hear the scream.
The sharp sound is ear-splitting and deafening in the otherwise cozy quiet of our home.
I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs, and rush into the next room. What’s going on? What could’ve happened in the short time I’ve been gone?
I stagger to a halt at the blood slicking the floor.
Monroe lies crumpled near the kitchen doorway, her throat slashed open, her eyes vacant and staring at nothing. One hand rests on her swollen belly, where another deep gash bleeds profusely, as if she tried to protect the baby even in her final moments.
And Jaden… my son.
My boy.
He’s sprawled among his toy cars, small body broken, blood splattered everywhere and flesh torn apart.
He’s been slaughtered. He was viciously attacked with no remorse. No care of his age or innocence.
It’s history repeating itself—more blood soaking these floorboards like it had so many years ago when I watched from a wardrobe as my entire family was massacred.
A man stands over them, his back to me. He’s dressed in black, a sleek mask covering his face.
I’m so disturbed, so fucking horrified, I can’t move. My mind has gone blank, swallowed by a horror so complete it paralyzes me where I stand.
The man turns. Even with the mask, I can sense his smile.
“I told you, Seo Jin-tae,” he says crudely, “I’d be seeing you again very soon.”
I jerk awake bathed in cold sweat.
My chest heaves with labored, ragged breaths as I blink at the dark shapes in the room.
For a terrifying moment, I don’t know where I am.
I can’t tell what’s real.
The images are still vivid before my mind’s eye—Monroe’s vacant look, the open gash on her round belly, even Jaden’s small lifeless body among his scattered toys.
Beside me, Monroe stirs.
“Jin?” she murmurs sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer her. I can’t exactly explain what’s going on myself.
My throat is tight and cottony, my pulse still hammering so hard it echoes in my ears. I shove the covers aside and swing my legs out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. My hand finds the blade I keep in the nightstand, and I’m exploring the dark apartment before I’ve consciously decided to.
“Jin?” Monroe calls out, more alert now. She rustles among the sheets, trying to get up and follow. “Jin, what are you doing?”
I don’t offer any response. My mind is still caught somewhere between the nightmare and reality, operating on pure survival instinct. I stalk through the dark apartment like a predator, blade in hand, checking every shadow and corner.
The bathroom. Empty.
The kitchen. Clear.
The living room. Nothing.
The balcony door. Still locked.
I flick on the ceiling light in the living room, the sudden brightness making me squint. The apartment is exactly as it should be—neat, clean, still, and undisturbed.
There are no intruders or masked figures lurking in wait for us.
We’re perfectly safe. Yet it still doesn’t feel safe. It feels as if danger has eyes and it’s watching us at this very moment.
I stand in the middle of the room, chest still heaving, the blade tight in my grip.
Soft footsteps pad down the hallway behind me.
Monroe comes up and puts her arms around me. She’s pulled on her robe and slid on her slippers, her bonnet still firmly covering her curls.
“Jin, tell me,” she says gently. “What is it? Please don’t say nothing, because this is definitely something.”
I run a hand through my sweat-damp hair, struggling to find a way to explain. The nightmare still clings to me like a film I can’t wash off. Every time I blink, I see it—the blood, the bodies, the masked man standing over them.
“A bad dream,” I manage finally. My voice sounds rougher than usual. “A very bad dream. It felt... too real.”
“What kind of bad dream?”
“You and the baby,” I say. “You were...”
I trail off, unable to finish. But Monroe seems to understand. She squeezes me from behind, pressing her face into my back and placing a warm, soft kiss against my cool skin.
She’s perhaps the biggest thing that calms my nerves since waking up. Her arms wrapped around me. Her lips on my skin and the feel of her heart beating against my back.
“I’m safe,” she murmurs into me. “I’m right here, Jin. The baby and me are here with you.”
I nod along, allowing her reassurances to truly sink in. For my mind to chase away the fiction that was my nightmare.
“And for the record,” she adds, her tone lighter, “I was having a really good dream about Philly cheesesteaks. Turns out my mom rubbed off on me after all.”
It’s a joke she’s hoping will ease the mood. Her small attempt to pull me back from the edge.
I try to smile for her. I would like to, in order to offer my own reassurance.
But my face won’t cooperate. Even though I’ve calmed down, a part of me is still on edge.
Monroe seems to understand. She lets go of me and offers tea. “I can make some of the chamomile. It really helps you relax.”
I shake my head. “No. Just... let’s go back to bed.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her back down the hallway. We slip under the covers together, and she curls into my side, her head resting on my chest, her arm draped across my stomach.
Her breathing slows down as she drifts back to sleep, trusting and unguarded.
But I don’t sleep. I remain fully awake.
I lie in the darkness staring at the ceiling, one arm wrapped protectively around her while my mind churns with the threats on the horizon.
Black Shell is out there. He’s waiting and watching. Playing a game with rules I don’t yet understand.
But I know one thing with perfect clarity.
He will come for the people I love. Just like someone came for my family all those years ago.
I won’t let that happen.
I will find him first and crush him with no mercy to be found.
This I vow in the silence, with Monroe’s heartbeat steady against my chest and our child growing safe inside her.
Black Shell will die by my hand. Before he ever touches what’s mine.